


Bloom

by loveroflou



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Feminine Harry, Feminine Louis, Flower Child Harry, Flower Child Louis, Flowers, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Language of Flowers, M/M, Makeup, Oblivious Harry, Read Author's Note, Soft Harry, Strangers to Lovers, Zayn Malik & Harry Styles Friendship, soft louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29608908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveroflou/pseuds/loveroflou
Summary: At some point they end up with hands and clothes caked with mud, courtesy of Louis, and instead of offering his bath for Harry to wash up Louis pushes him to the ground and straddles his waist, finger painting a muddy flower on his forehead as Harry trembles with laughter beneath his hands.or, harry meets a boy who speaks with flowers, and red chrysanthemums might mean i love you but so do mud fights, lipstick prints and stolen ribbons
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, referenced ziam
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	Bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluegreenish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluegreenish/gifts).



> (there are a couple parts where if you don’t know the meanings of the flowers mentioned it wouldn’t make much sense so [here](https://www.almanac.com/flower-meanings-language-flowers#) is a table with the meanings of the flowers i used)
> 
> so i went into this like, i only know 3 (three) flowers by name but it’s _fine_ this is fine it can’t be _that_ bad. it was bad. it was terrible. apparently there are different flowers for each season and there are things you need to do to your soil and you can’t just stuff the flower into the ground, sprinkle it with water and call it a day.
> 
> i did too much research for this and i still don’t think you should trust me with your flowers if you have any so i’m just going to hope you just like flowers and don’t actually garden, but if you do then please pretend i didn’t mix winter and spring plants together. i also made it a thing that singing to flowers helps them grow and technically science can’t prove this one wrong so i’m right. and harry and louis fall in love very quickly because i wrote most of this on valentine’s day.
> 
> in all seriousness, this was a lot of fun to write. it was a struggle at first because i couldn’t come up with anything decent to fit the prompt but then lizzie, who is wonderful and lovely and absolutely has my heart, helped with that bit, so this story is also kind of for fen. there’s a tiny university reference in there, so hl’s ages are like early 20s or so. i really hope you like it and happy belated love day! <3
> 
> all mistakes are mine, i don’t own anyone don’t sue me and title is from troye sivan’s song with the same name.

Harry’s flowers are dying.

He frowns at the wilting buds, eyeing them with a glare one last time before stumbling back to his house with a huff and slamming the door behind him. Zayn looks up from his phone at the noise, his golden eyes turning sad when they settle on Harry’s face.

Harry goes sulkily when he pats his lap, curling up and tucking his nose against Zayn’s neck. He will _not_ cry.

“Did they wilt again?” Zayn asks quietly, brushing a hand through Harry’s hair, and Harry nods, sniffling. He gives him a sympathetic wince. “We can go out tomorrow and buy some new ones to plant again if you want. We can ask for instructions, this time. Maybe someone there knows how to garden properly.”

Groaning, Harry only nuzzles closer to Zayn. He kisses his neck when Zayn lets go of his phone to tighten his arms around him. “Okay,” he breathes after the silence stretches. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

Harry ends up having to go on his own the next day, something about Liam’s car breaking down in the middle of the road that Zayn kisses all over Harry’s face in apology for before running over to attend to. He heaves a petulant sigh as he makes his way down the road and to the garden centre, pushing a stray curl back behind his ear.

Niall greets him cheerfully when he walks in, his grin not faltering at the sight of Harry’s pout. “What’s up, mate?” he asks, tone gentle despite the grin splitting his face.

Harry offers a small smile. “I don’t think I’m ever going to figure out how this gardening thing works,” he says honestly, and it sounds sad to his own ears. He’d started trying to plant flowers in the house’s garden about four months ago, but somehow he keeps managing to kill them in less than a week.

He frequents the gardening store so much that all its workers know him by name, and Niall even went back to his house for dinner last week.

Niall is frowning at his phone when Harry tunes back in, before he nods to himself almost determinedly. “I have a friend,” he says brightly when he looks up at Harry, tucking his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, “who lives in the same neighbourhood as you. Just a couple of streets down. I can give you his number if you want? He knows a thing or two about flowers.”

Harry shakes his head. It’s tempting, but he doesn’t want to bother a stranger.

“Come on,” Niall interjects before Harry can say anything. “Just save his number. He’ll be happy to help, I swear it.”

So he hands Niall his phone to write the number in while Harry picks out transplants and three potted flowers and, on a whim, a packet of wildflower seeds. Niall rings him up quickly, pushing the phone into Harry’s mouth with a loud laugh. Harry’s ‘thank you’ is muffled, and he pushes the door open with the top of his foot, both hands full.

The walk back home is a short one, and the house is empty when Harry puts his bags down to unlock the door. He sets his things aside, humming a song he only remembers the melody of to himself as he chucks his sweaty clothes into the hamper and hops in the shower.

Zayn texts him that he’s spending the night at Liam’s when Harry’s just done preparing dinner, and he pouts at his screen for a moment too long before settling down in the lounge to eat. Reruns of Friends play quietly in the background as Harry tries not to burn himself with the too-hot pasta.

Later, he looks up _Why the fuck did my flowers die this time?_ already scowling, and when he gets more search results than he can count he decides he’s too grumpy and doesn’t read any of them.

* * *

The man who steadies him before Harry can fall face-first on the tiles of the floor has chestnut hair that falls into bright blue eyes, and his hands are covered in bandages but strong when they pull Harry up. He’s in a blouse that’s the colour of peachy milk, and the skirt and fishnets he’s wearing are chalk black to match his Converse shoes.

Harry stumbles back immediately, apologies on the tip of his tongue and face flushing a fire-hydrant red. He’s met with amused soft laughter and a raspy voice saying, “You don’t look this clumsy when you’re working in your garden, you know?”

He feels his face crease into a confused frown, eyebrows knitting as he tries to remember how he’s supposed to know this person. Harry comes up blank, and the man hesitates a little. “We’re neighbours,” he says slowly, tone almost questioning now. “I live down the road from you? I catch you outside on my way to work.”

His cheeks are reddening too, now, hands flailing in front of him with uncertainty, and Harry feels awful for making this awkward for the both of them. “Oh,” he says, no hint of recognition in his voice. “Um, I’m sorry–” he bites his lip, green eyes falling to his tattered boots, “I’m usually too in my head to notice my surroundings when I’m gardening. Sorry,” he says again, without reason.

“Oh!” the man breathes right back, nodding like he understands. Harry doesn’t think he does. “I get that. I’m usually like that too when I garden. It’s, like, relaxing when you’re alone with the flowers, innit?”

To his credit, Harry does try to look like he gets at least half of what the man is saying, but he really does not. It must show on his face because the receding blush on the man’s face comes back full force, bright and uneven.

“Everything just keeps dying,” Harry blurts out, wincing when the man’s mouth drops open. Quickly, he adds, “The flowers, I mean. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” He’s fidgeting with the hem of his dress when the man’s face finally smooths over in genuine understanding.

He brushes his fringe out of his eyes with gentle fingers before asking, “I can help? If you want, of course, I can come over and see what’s going wrong?”

Someone behind Harry clears their throat, and he steps out of the way hurriedly to let them pass, only now realising he’s still in the middle of the food aisle. “ _Right,”_ he thinks, “ _should finish buying ingredients for tonight’s dinner.”_

“I don’t want to bother you,” Harry starts, turning back to his neighbour, and it’s only when the latter insists that he’d be having fun and this is not at all a bother for him that Harry nods his head in agreement. He smiles softly, extending his hand out. “I’m Harry, by the way,” he says. “Don’t think I’ve mentioned that.”

The man’s hand is cold and steady when it takes Harry’s and shakes it. “Louis,” he introduces with a grin. “’S nice finally meeting you.”

It’s only after they make plans for Louis to come over after work next Wednesday that Harry realises they never exchanged numbers.

* * *

“What,” Louis says quietly instead of a hello when he comes up behind Harry. “What are you doing?”

Harry frowns. “Hello, Louis. I’m watering the flowers,” he mumbles, the end of his sentence tilting up in a confused question.

Clearing his throat, Louis reaches forward and plucks the nearly-empty watering pot from Harry’s hands. He crouches down silently to run his pointer finger over a soaking leaf, and Harry doesn’t think the wince on his face is because he’s in the direct view of the sun.

“Okay,” he says, turning to Harry, and his voice is gentle. “You’ve drowned them.” His hand is still caressing the tight green bulbs like he’s apologising for Harry basically murdering them. Harry’s face falls. “How often do you usually water them?”

Harry’s frown gets deeper, lips tugging in a pout. “Every day?”

Louis nods. “Daffodils should be watered thoroughly at first, but not like this. Too much water is never a good thing.”

He orders Harry to help extract the bulbs from the soil when he’s no longer a hitch of a breath away from hyperventilating. Harry watches the way the sunlight streaks golden through his hair and how gentle he is as he burrows the bulbs deep into a dry patch of soil, almost like he’s having little conversations with the seeds that Harry could only wish to understand.

Louis gives him a giddy grin when all seven of the bulbs are deep in soil again, and his cheeks colour when he notices Harry’s been watching him. They take turns watering, and when Harry’s hands tremble with uncertainty Louis comes up behind him, steady and sure, and, settling one hand on Harry’s waist, covers Harry’s with the other.

Harry insists that Louis comes inside and stays for dinner after, turning down all of Louis’ half-hearted arguments. Louis isn’t shy to sneak around the house exploring, face open and flushed in awe at all the picture portraits hung messily on the walls. He keeps away from the closed doors – Zayn and Harry’s bedrooms – and it warms Harry’s chest a stupid amount.

When he’s done and satisfied, Louis meets Harry in the kitchen where he’s pushing a tray of roast chicken and vegetables into the oven. He jumps on the black concrete countertop, his legs swinging as he hums a song Harry doesn’t recognise.

“How do you take your tea?” Harry asks a minute later, looking up at him expectantly. Louis’ eyebrows rise, his hand coming up to push the pins holding his fringe to the side back in place.

“A splash of milk and no sugar,” he says, like Harry’s stupid for not knowing. “How do _you_ take your tea?”

Harry grins. “The right way.”

It earns him a thwack to the back of his head and he giggles, ducking out of the way when Louis tries to hit him again. His socked feet stumble, slipping on the cool tiles of the floor, and he only has time to shut his eyes tightly before Louis’ hands are snaking past his waist to steady him. He falls face-first against Louis’ chest instead of the floor, his nose wedged over Louis’ collarbone.

Louis’ heartbeat is loud and unsteady under the palms of Harry’s hands clutching tightly at his plain white shirt.

* * *

“Hey, Harry.”

Harry looks up with a frown that quickly smooths over when he sees Louis. The green of his eyes follows the way his washed-out overalls are cuffed once just over his golden ankles, its straps hiding the gentle ruffles of a sleeveless white top. Louis’ hair is in his eyes, and when he swipes it away, cheeks tinting, Harry notices his fingernails are a pale yellow that matches the short, silky dress Harry is wearing.

“Hi, Lou,” he remembers to say a moment too late, his own cheeks flushing the red of strawberries. He worries his bottom lip between his thumb and pointer finger when he stands up, tucking a stray curl behind his ear with the other hand.

Louis’ smile goes gentle when he finally collects himself. He shoos Harry inside to retrieve the potted tulips, and Harry watches him fill up the watering pot before ducking into the house.

They work slowly, Louis’ movements careful and precise and tender, almost. It’s quite fascinating, watching him work. Harry finds himself zoning out watching the gentleness of his face expressions instead of copying the way his hands _lovingly_ part the soil to make space for the flowers, and he feels his heart swell in his chest even though he doesn’t quite understand.

He follows clumsily when Louis shoots him an amused glance, blue eyes glimmering under the soft rays of the sun.

“Push a little deeper,” he murmurs in a moment, and Harry complies to the order unthinkingly, hands reaching forward into the earth.

When they’re done, they water the bright pink tulips before watering the daffodil bulbs. What starts as washing their hands under the water hose turns to Louis splashing cold water on Harry’s back and Harry dumping whatever’s left in the watering pot over Louis’ head.

He’s swiping running water from over the bridge of his nose when a sludgy mess hits him right to his face, and he can only faintly hear the noise of Louis’ giggles over his own surprise. He crouches down blindly, scooping a handful of mud into his hand and aiming for Louis’ chest when he throws. Louis dodges it just barely and with a high pitched squeal, and Harry’s too busy scooping up more mud balls to worry about how they must look to any passersby.

Louis is showering when Zayn comes home from work, and he only raises his eyebrows when Harry grins bashfully, his bottom lip catching between his teeth as his cheeks heat up.

“This the guy you told me about?” he asks in a whisper, leaning forward to cup Harry’s face to kiss him hello. “You don’t smell like sex,” he says, laughing when Harry squawks and pushes him away.

“We didn’t _do_ anything, oh my god. You suck,” he mumbles poutily against Zayn’s mouth when he kisses him again before giving in and humming softly. “Are you staying for dinner?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Date night. Just came to change my clothes.” He frowns then, his hand coming up to pet Harry’s damp hair. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages,” he says, looping a curl around his pointer finger and tugging. “You wanna go out for lunch tomorrow? Then movie night? I’m off work.”

Nuzzling into his hand, Harry nods, says, “Yeah, ‘course.” He pulls back the tiniest bit, his lips breaking into a content grin. “Go on, then. And say hi to Li from me.”

Louis forces him to drink his tea with milk when he finally emerges from the shower, and Harry’s too giddy at seeing him in his clothes that he doesn’t even protest when Louis slaps his hand away to pour milk into his teacup.

They argue over shit TV before Harry hands Louis his laptop and lets him choose a movie, and before long he has his face buried in Louis’ shoulder as someone on the screen screams bloody murder. It’s lulling enough, though, the way Louis smells like Harry’s strawberry shampoo and the non-stop motion of his hand drawing soothing circles into Harry’s back.

Harry nips at his clothed shoulder childishly, smiling when Louis giggles and pauses the movie to give him his full attention.

“Hi,” Harry breathes, and their faces are so close he could count Louis’ eyelashes if he only leans in the tiniest bit.

“Hi, Harold,” Louis murmurs, his thumb digging into Harry’s side. Louis rolls his eyes fondly when Harry doesn’t say anything, pushing the laptop into Harry’s lap. “Put something else, then, if this is boring you so much.”

Harry ends up making them watch and argue over music videos and genres until they’re too hungry to do so anymore. They talk about family and which university classes they like the most over broccoli pasta that’s too hot it burns the tips of their tongues and the roofs of their throats.

While he’s washing the dishes, Harry listens to Louis yell at Niall over the phone for giving his number to a stranger _again_ , but the way he says ‘stranger’ is so fond Harry feels his fingertips tingling.

He falls asleep at some point way past midnight after the sixth good night text from Louis, and when he does there’s a smile on his face.

* * *

There are two potted roses in Louis’ hands when he steps into the garden, and Harry startles from his spot at the sound of his voice.

“What are you doing?” he says softly, but it’s not with horror like it was the first time Louis visited. It’s fond now, soft and makes Harry’s cheeks blush unevenly.

He stands up, dusting his knees, and takes a pot from Louis. “Um, I read somewhere that if you sing to them it helps with their growth,” he says, almost questioningly.

Louis nods. “It does. Just – you have a lovely voice,” he finishes after a pause, turning around and back to his car before Harry can say anything.

The silence that envelopes them as they transfer the potted red roses from Louis’ car and into the garden is comfortable, and Harry has to bite down at his bottom lip to stop himself from saying something stupid.

He finds himself humming mindlessly when they start to plant the flowers, and there’s a soft clearing of Louis’ throat before he follows Harry’s humming with the words. There’s a unique rasp to his voice that makes Harry want to sit and, like, simply listen. Instead, he sings lowly so he and Louis are synchronising, their voices hushed enough that if someone were to pass by they wouldn’t be able to hear.

It feels like a secret between them and the flowers, almost.

It’s not long before they have all the roses planted, and Louis entrusts Harry with watering them as he goes to check on the rest of the flowers. It takes them much longer to pluck the weeds from the ground – mainly because Harry makes a fuss.

“Stop!” he squeaks urgently, and Louis does so with a startle. He turns to Harry, the blue of his eyes confused.

“What’s wrong?”

“What are you doing?” Harry insists, feeling his bottom lip wobble.

Louis’ eyes soften. “I’m just removing the weeds, love,” he says softly, like he’s talking to a baby. He lets go and dusts his gloved hands before throwing the gloves to the side altogether and moving to crouch down in front of Harry. “What’s got you so upset?” he murmurs gently, brushing a thumb under Harry’s eye.

Harry sniffles. “You’re killing them,” he mumbles, distantly aware of how inappropriate he’s acting.

Louis’ lips part in silent surprise before he nods, a serious expression taking over his face. “If we keep them, they’re going to ruin the rest of the flowers. Tell you what,” he offers when Harry’s pout gets deeper, “if we pluck them out now, will you save them for me? I promise we’ll put them to good use later.”

“Okay,” Harry breathes, inhaling shakily. He smiles a little before shaking his head. “Sorry, I’m being silly.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just lovely.” Louis tucks a curl back behind his red-flushed ear before standing up, and Harry’s heart is beating so loudly against his chest he wonders if Louis can hear it.

* * *

Harry wakes up on Saturday snuggled in his bed, which is definitely not where he fell asleep last night. He rubs his eyes tiredly, pulling on an oversized hoodie and some socks before pattering to the kitchen to start on breakfast.

Zayn slumps into a chair with a groggy ‘morning, princess’ just as Harry’s laying a plate of eggs on the dining table in front of him.

“G’morning,” Harry hums happily, retrieving their cups of tea from the kitchen counter before taking the seat opposite Zayn. “You carried me to bed last night?”

Nodding slowly, Zayn accepts the steaming teacup gratefully and blows on it before taking a sip and finally letting his eyes flutter open.

“What?” he says when Zayn’s gaze lingers on his face for a little too long, and there’s a glimmer in his golden eyes that makes Harry raise his eyebrows. He pats his cheeks. “’S there something on my face?”

“There’s nothing on your face,” Zayn says after he swallows, and he grins. “Your phone’s been blowing up all night.”

Harry flushes, cherry red darkening the apples of his cheeks. Zayn confiscated his phone the night before because he kept checking it instead of focusing on the movie they were watching, and after whining about how Zayn is supposed to be his best friend and _not_ his mum Harry finally allowed himself to settle against his side and focus on the TV.

“Oh,” he breathes. His chest is suddenly warm like molten caramel, fingertips tingling.

“Has he asked you out yet?”

Shaking his head, Harry mumbles, “I don’t think he likes me like that. And it’s just a tiny crush, it’ll go away.”

Zayn raises his perfectly trimmed eyebrows. “He had a mud fight with you – like children, _outside_ where everyone could see – ten days into knowing you,” he deadpans, and Harry ducks his head.

“Don’t put your weird ideas into my head,” he says, because he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say, picking up two empty plates and carrying them to the sink. Zayn just shakes his head, rolling his eyes fondly when Harry smiles at him, shy and sweet.

“Fine, then,” he allows, getting up to help put the leftovers away. “Is he coming over tonight? I need to work on that art project I told you about, but I’ll just stay in my room.”

Harry’s eyebrows tug into a tiny frown. “I think he’s working tonight,” he says. “I’ll check my phone in a minute and tell you. Now, will you help me wash the dishes?”

* * *

Harry and Louis are snuggled side by side on Harry’s bed when Zayn comes home from Liam’s three days later, their flowers already sang to and watered. He knocks on Harry’s slightly ajar bedroom door before walking in, and if he’s surprised to see Louis he doesn’t show it.

“Hey, princess,” he says softly, leaning forward to kiss him chastely when Harry purses his lips. “You must be Louis,” he continues when he pulls back, extending a hand for Louis to shake. “I’m Zayn.”

Louis frees one hand from under the laptop and blankets to take Zayn’s hand in his, body tensing just enough for Harry to notice. “It’s good to meet you,” he breathes. To Harry, right after Zayn slips into his own bedroom, he says, “I didn’t know you have a boyfriend,” his voice cracking on the last syllable.

Frowning, Harry says, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Louis blinks. “He isn’t–” he trails off, confused, his pointer finger pointing to the door Zayn shut behind him.

“Oh! No, no, no. Oh, my god.” The laptop wobbles on their thighs when Harry pulls his hands out of the blanket mess to push them over his eyes. “We’re childhood best friends,” he whispers, voice mortified and muffled through his fingers. “Definitely not dating. Zayn has a boyfriend; they’ve been together for two years, now.”

“But you kiss?” he asks, and Harry notices his voice is more amused than strained, now.

Huffing out a breathy laugh, Harry nods, dropping his hands and resting his head on Louis’ shoulder. His fingers hover over the touchpad, The Notebook still paused on the screen. “People usually assume we’re together, or that we’ve been together at some point, but no. It’s just comforting to me. I like kissing, that’s all,” he adds softly when he starts the movie.

Louis hums, and from the corner of his eyes Harry sees him fixing his fringe, but he doesn’t say anything. He cuddles close to Louis’ side when Louis’ arm comes to wrap around him, sighing happily when Louis only pulls him closer.

* * *

“Do you still have the weeds we pulled out the other day?” Louis says when he steps into the garden. They actually had to throw out the ones Louis plucked from Harry’s garden after they completely forgot about them, and Louis ended up bringing whatever little weeds he’d found in his own garden for Harry to keep.

Harry looks up from where he’s watering the newly planted carnations and nods. “Yeah,” he says out loud. “Why?”

“Go get them and come on. I’ll wait in the car.”

“Where are we going?” Harry asks, tugging his skirt down when he straightens up and puts the watering pot down. “Should I change?”

Louis is dressed in his overalls and a thin shirt as well as white Converse shoes, and he takes a moment to survey Harry’s clothes – a crop top and a black miniskirt over fishnets – before shaking his head. “No. C’mon, get them and let’s go.”

Harry does so, pulling on his black boots and his hair into a ponytail before grabbing the bag of plants and hopping into the passenger seat. Louis doesn’t tell him where they’re headed, but he lets Harry mess around with the radio and sings along when Harry finds something he likes, so he figures it’s alright.

They park the car by a flower field. Louis shuts off the engine and jumps out before Harry can say anything, and then he’s opening Harry’s door for him and grinning. He grabs what looks to be a picnic basket from the trunk before knocking Harry’s shoulder with his own and walking forward.

Harry reaches for Louis’ free hand hesitantly, cheeks bursting with a strawberry red when Louis tangles their fingers together with a soft grin. They abandon their basket under the shade of an old tree to walk between rows and rows of – according to Louis – freshly bloomed flowers.

Their linked hands swing lightly between them as Harry points to different flowers and Louis provides him with their meanings, their words coming out in hushed whispers despite them being all alone.

Louis stops them by a patch of scarlet sages that he plucks some of to thread with the honeysuckles he picked out along the way, and those he braids with a mix of bright red and yellow tulips. His hands work too quickly for Harry to follow, like he’s done this a million times before.

Before long, he’s stepping too close and placing the crown carefully on Harry’s head, his fingers pulling the red ribbon from Harry’s curls then delicately rearranging them so they’re falling in waves over his shoulders. Harry’s breath catches in his throat, and Louis exhales shakily when he steps back, his grin melting into a fond smile when Harry’s hands reach up instinctively to touch the flower crown.

Harry doesn’t ask the meanings of those flowers, like he doesn’t ask for the ribbon Louis loops around his left wrist back.

“Do you know the meanings of _any_ flowers?” Louis asks when they stop beside white camellias, and Harry’s eyebrows quirk into a frown.

“Red roses mean love,” he tries, hesitant. “I think, at least? Isn’t that why they’re everywhere on Love Day?”

“Love Day?” Louis says, eyebrows rising. The blue of his eyes is soft and fond and glimmering. “You mean Valentine’s Day?”

Harry nods, blushing. “‘Valentine’s Day’ sounds stupid.”

Shaking his head, Louis crouches down and plucks out a single camellia before straightening up and pushing it against Harry’s chest. “You’re adorable.”

Harry’s mouth drops open slightly, uneven blush spreading to disappear beneath his collarbones.

“That’s what white camellias mean,” he adds, but his face is flushed and his free hand comes up to pet his chestnut fringe to the side. Avoiding eye contact, Louis takes Harry’s hand and wraps it around the stem of the flower before holding it in his own hand and dragging them back the way they came from. “Let’s go eat,” he murmurs, voice lost in the wind’s gentle whistling.

The strawberry jam sandwiches Louis’ prepared are cut in small stars, and Harry doesn’t comment on it simply because he’s worried the honey-warm fondness bubbling in his chest would spill out should he open his mouth. Louis pours them both milk tea in paper cups and retrieves a plastic container of raisin cookies from the picnic basket that makes Harry’s eyes widen.

“Did you – did I bake these?”

He only looks the tiniest bit sheepish when he says, “I like your cookies. Zayn told me it’s okay if I borrowed some.”

“You planned this out with _Zayn?_ ”

Louis shushes him with a swat at his thigh, pushing his fringe behind his ear when it falls into his face. He pulls out a plate of chopped fruit and unwraps it slowly before laying it on the checkered blanket alongside the rest of their meal.

Harry smiles fondly over the mouth of his teacup, blows on the steaming tea and takes a small sip.

“Hey, Lou,” Harry calls while they’re packing their things, and Louis turns to him, the crown on his own head – made fully of freshly plucked flowers that Harry picked out and none of the weed he originally wanted to use – slipping and tumbling to the ground with the sudden movement. “What flowers are these?”

He’s pointing to a small patch of red chrysanthemums that’s blooming in an odd sunny corner on its own, and Louis gulps. “Chrysanthemums,” he breathes, his hands quickening their pace as he stuffs the dirty cutlery and his crown into the basket.

Harry hums. He tilts his head ever so slightly, deep in thought. “They resemble you, kind of.” Turning back to look at Louis, he asks, “What do they mean?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says after a pause and a little too loudly, and when he turns around with the picnic basket clutched tightly in his hands Harry catches the dark blush blooming on the tips of his ears. He’s running away and to the car before Harry has the chance to ask again.

* * *

“Hullo, Lou,” Harry drawls into the phone, tilting his head back into Zayn’s hand when Zayn stops petting his hair. “What’s up?”

“I was at Niall’s earlier and the fertiliser I need for my flowers is out of stock,” Louis starts, “so I was thinking of popping into the garden centre midtown, if you want to come?” There’s a honking noise followed by a faint curse that makes Harry raise his eyebrows, but he’s too excited by the prospect of Louis wanting to take him out – not on a date, even if Zayn insists that he and Louis are dating by now – to comment on it.

He nods, melting into the couch with a small, pleased hum when Zayn tugs at his hair gently to pull it in a braid. “Sure,” he says. “When?”

Louis sounds amused when he says, “Right now.”

Harry shoots up so he’s sitting upright, barely managing not to hit Zayn in the jaw with his head, and squeaks, “ _Now?_ ”

“Yes, Harold.” He backtracks then, suddenly not as certain, “Unless you have other plans, then–”

“No,” Harry says quickly, Zayn snorting when he shakes his head for emphasis, “I’m free and all yours.”

Zayn starts full on laughing, and when Harry swats at him with a pout he only pushes himself to the other corner of the couch away from him, his shoulders softly shaking.

“Alright, then,” Louis breathes back, and Harry blushes all the way up to his ears when he notes that he sounds pleased. “Go get dressed, I’ll be there in ten.”

The moment he hangs up, Harry jumps back to Zayn’s side, punching his thigh half-heartedly with a sulky whine. “He’s coming over. Help me.” Zayn is grinning when he takes his hand in his to tangle their fingers together.

Harry’s pout deepens.

“Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Get dressed and I’ll do your hair and makeup.” He ruffles his hair for good measure, and Harry kisses him sloppily on the cheek in thanks before running to his bedroom.

He’s in a designer sheer shirt that’s peach to match the bow Zayn’s tied his braided curls with, and high-waisted, flared trousers, and his makeup is rosy and soft, just the way he likes, when Louis texts to let him know he’s outside. Harry ties his white Converse laces quickly, grabs his phone and wallet and waves to Zayn with a grin before slipping out the door.

The drive midtown is a blur of too loud hipster music that has Louis glaring daggers at Harry until he gives in with a huff and sings along, making Harry’s kittenish pout melt into a grin, and soft murmurs of conversation that flow between them when their throats go hoarse and an old woman shoots them a displeased look from the side of the street.

“You’ve never been here?” Louis guesses when they find their way to the centre, Harry gaping with wide eyes and his mouth dropped open at every little thing, and he manages to shake his head.

“I’ve been to the mall on the corner of the street, but never here. The only gardening shop I’ve been to is Niall’s,” he explains, awe prominent in his voice, and when he looks at Louis he finds his eyes the blue of forget-me-not’s and so fond that Harry feels it in the warmth spreading from the centre of his chest to his tummy and the tips of his peach painted fingernails.

Only for a moment, the world around them holds its breath – but then Louis swallows whatever words he wanted to say, and it whines when he looks away, pulling Harry with him through the rows of potted flowers.

They stuff two boxes of fertiliser into a discarded cart that Harry manages to grab. Harry’s content to push the cart and walk behind Louis, who looks very much like a child in a toy store. He seems to be looking around for something, and before Harry can ask what it is they spot a row of potted clovers that Louis scurries off to.

Louis carefully picks out a pot of white clovers that he chooses to keep held in his hands instead of depositing in the cart, and then he turns to Harry with a sheepish grin. “Sorry I was lousy company for a bit there,” he says softly, his face flushing a hazy candy red.

Harry shakes his head, genuinely unbothered. “It’s nice seeing you, like,” he pauses, thinking his words over. “In your element,” he decides on.

“Okay, Harold,” Louis says, rolling his eyes, but he sounds flustered. “Whatever you say.” He asks if Harry wants anything, and when Harry denies Louis decides he actually got the clovers for him, so now Harry has to get him something back, and Harry listens, his eyebrows raised up in amusement the whole time, because Louis is lovely and Harry’s a little stupid.

Harry stops them by the potted salvias, and when he reaches for the blue ones Louis huffs out a small laugh of disbelief that he doesn’t elaborate on. “Do you not like these?” he asks hesitantly, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Louis bumps their hips together. “No, I do, they’re lovely.” He pauses, then, much quieter, orders, “Stop eating yourself.”

Harry blinks. “Yes–” he starts to say before catching himself. “Sorry,” he mumbles instead.

Louis doesn’t comment on his red face, and when he takes the pot from Harry’s hands Harry realises he’s blushing too. They make their way outside in silence after paying, before Louis seems to gather himself.

“Where do you want to eat?”

Harry’s head tilts in consideration. “There’s a small restaurant in the mall that I’ve been meaning to try,” he says finally, nodding in the direction of the huge shopping centre.

“Why didn’t you?” Louis asks as they make their way over, walking too close their knuckles keep brushing.

Harry wants to reach out and hold his hand, but he doesn’t. He shrugs.

The restaurant is buzzing with the low hum of conversation of only a handful of people and a song playing softly when they go in. A waitress greets them with a polite smile before leading them to a free table where the lights are dimmed the tiniest bit, and there’s a single white carnation in a clear glass, and Harry’s cheeks are tinted strawberry red.

They talk lowly over flutes of cranberry juice that glisten with its chillness and plates of too hot ravioli with creamy mushrooms. Harry orders them a glass of chocolate mousse that they share while Love Me Tender croons gently in the background, and both of their faces are flushed red, and when they leave the restaurant their hands are entwined and Harry thinks he’d be content never letting go.

When he realises the cosmetic store he frequents is having a sale, Harry drags them in its direction, grinning at the soft sound of Louis’ laughter.

He is contemplating two shades of lip gloss when Louis hooks his head over his shoulder, his hot breath against Harry’s ear making him shiver.

“Just get them both,” he says, his voice soft.

“Which d’you think would look best on me?” Harry asks, reluctantly dislodging Louis’ head so he can turn around to face him instead.

Louis takes both tubes in his hands, and he only spares either of them a glance before looking at Harry. His hand comes up, almost unconsciously, to trace the cupid’s bow of Harry’s lips, and Harry closes his eyes, his breath catching in his throat.

The touch is so tender, so gentle, just a barely there graze of Louis’ thumb against the soft plush of Harry’s lips. Harry kisses the pad of his thumb, opens his eyes to meet Louis’ wide ones, and takes both tubes of lip gloss.

“I’ll get both,” he says, and he thinks if he leans forward and kisses him Louis might kiss him back.

“Are Louis and I dating?”

Zayn looks startled for a moment before blinking twice and patting the empty spot next to him on the bed. “Hey, baby. I didn’t hear you coming in,” he says. “Did you have fun today?”

“I think Louis and I are dating,” is what Harry says, climbing up on Zayn’s bed and shoving his sneakers off before plucking the sketchbook off of Zayn’s lap and sitting in its place. He wraps Zayn’s arms around his waist, starting to play with his fingers as he talks. “We went to the gardening centre first,” he starts, melting against Zayn’s chest when he kisses the crown of his head, “and he bought me _flowers._ And they’re all pretty and soft and like, _who does that?_ ”

Zayn hums to show him he’s listening but doesn’t interrupt. Harry’s speaking so quickly by the time he’s done recounting his day, his hands moving in front of him as Zayn hums in all the right places.

“Are we dating?” he asks again, miserably. “Why won’t he kiss me?”

“You have to talk to him, princess, you know that,” Zayn says, his voice gentle, and Harry would turn to pout at him but he’s scratching softly at his scalp, looping his curls around his fingers, and Harry feels too much like a petted kitten to move.

“Boys suck,” he decides, sounding very much like a toddler, Zayn nodding when he says, “except for you. You’re wonderful and you take the best care of me. Stupid Louis. I’ll just be your baby forever.”

Lying on the bed and pulling Harry with him, Zayn smiles fondly, cuddling him tightly to his chest. “I don’t think Louis’d like that, babe.” He nudges Harry’s nose with his own, and when Harry pulls him down for a kiss he keeps it chaste and sweet.

Harry whines grumpily against his mouth, wordlessly asking for more.

“Talk to him,” Zayn insists instead of indulging him like he normally would, leaning back to turn out the lights before snuggling with Harry once more. “Then you’ll get all the kisses you want.”

* * *

Harry doesn’t talk to him. They text way too much and well into the night most days, and Louis still comes over every other day to help with Harry’s steadily flourishing garden, and they go out for dinner again, but Harry never does bring it up.

It’s not really planned when he finally visits Louis’ garden. It starts with him accidently finding Louis in the garden centre when he pops in to say hi to Niall and ends with Louis threading their fingers together and dragging him to his car, Niall yelling at them to use protection, the door not slamming shut quickly enough to drown his voice.

Louis’ garden is _huge._ Harry stares through the car window, Louis laughing softly at his gaping reflection. A rusty mailbox greets them from beside the white wooden fence enveloping the garden, and Harry traces it carefully, dust collecting at the tips of his fingers. From its flag hangs a dried flower crown that’s made from slightly familiar flowers, and it takes Harry a moment to realise they’re the weeds they never ended up using.

Rows and rows of flowers are bright and evenly spaced out inside; Harry walks gingerly between them until Louis comes up behind him and presses a full watering pot into his hands. Louis’ voice is raspy when he starts singing as he waters the flowers with a watering can of his own, and the wistfulness in his voice has Harry freezing in his place, eyes sitting unmoving on the back of Louis’ head.

He looks at home in the heart of the garden, the thin material of his white dress fluttering in the gentle breeze of the wind, but for the first time since Harry’s known him there’s something in the hunch of his shoulders that’s no longer as content, and it’s so prominent in his voice that Harry’s chest aches, like he wants more of something but doesn’t really know how to reach for it.

Setting the watering pot down, he walks over to a patch of pink camellias slowly and plucks one out before turning back to Harry, his fingers pulling the leaves from the rich green stem. Louis reaches out and, carefully pushing Harry’s hair to the side, Harry’s breath hitching, tucks it over his ear, his fingertips combing through the curls tenderly to rearrange them back into place, and he doesn’t say anything.

Harry wants to kiss him so badly he feels drunk on it.

He doesn’t, though. “What does it mean?” he murmurs into the air between them, his fingers coming up to touch over the softness of the pastel pink petals, and Louis’ hand falls from where it hovered over Harry’s face to rest by his side.

Louis’ lips part, something in his eyes flickering like the force of the words lodging up in his throat is suddenly too much. “I don’t know,” is what he ends up saying; the blue of his eyes is hazy as it stares into a distant point over Harry’s shoulder.

“Tell me,” Harry urges, taking Louis’ hand in his, forcing him to meet his eyes.

His voice wavers, faint like flickering flames. “I don’t – Harry, I don’t know.”

The silence stretches for too long Harry stumbles back with the force of it, and instead of screaming, “ _You’re lying! Tell me,_ ” he says, simply, “Okay.”

They watch more music videos, on Louis’ laptop this time, and drink more milk tea, and when it’s time for dinner they take their plates back outside to sit on the damp ground between the flowers. Louis braids flowers into Harry’s hair as the sun sets, washing the sides of their faces a vivid tinge of gold.

At some point they end up with hands and clothes caked with mud, courtesy of Louis, and instead of offering his bath for Harry to wash up Louis pushes him to the ground and straddles his waist, finger painting a muddy flower on his forehead as Harry trembles with laughter beneath his hands.

“Stay still,” he orders through his own giggles. “You’re ruining my art.”

He digs his free hand in Harry’s chest in something like punishment, but his touch as he continues to draw is so tender Harry wants to cry.

Melting slightly under Louis’ hand, he closes his eyes, only blinking them open when Louis’ fingers on his skin stop moving.

“Stay still,” he orders again before jumping up and running inside, only sparing Harry a glance. Harry is twiddling the camellia between his fingers when Louis comes back and, carefully sitting back on Harry’s tummy, plucks it from his hands to push it securely in its place over his ear.

There’s a wet flannel in his hand that he uses to delicately clean Harry’s face. Harry blinks his wide doe eyes up at him, his hands snaking up to settle on the sides of Louis’ waist, and Louis’ breathing is shaky when it hits Harry’s jaw.

He pulls out a tube of lip gloss that Harry didn’t notice earlier, and Harry hums.

“I’ve never seen you in lipstick before,” he says softly, his hold on Louis’ waist tightening only a fraction.

“Because I don’t wear it,” Louis says, his hand clenching and unclenching on the tube of gloss. The only makeup on his face is the slightly smudged black eyeliner, and it somehow makes sense when he continues, “I bought this for you.”

Harry’s lips part ever so slightly with the weight of Louis’ gaze on them. “Is this okay?” he murmurs when he figures how to get the tube of red gloss open, dipping the brush twice into the liquid before pulling it out.

Silently, Harry gives a shaky nod, nuzzling into the warmth of Louis’ free hand that cups the side of his face.

The strokes of the brush are trembling and chilly on Harry’s lips, Louis’ thumb tugging slightly at the corner of his jaw so Harry’s mouth would fall open the tiniest bit more. Louis keeps his eyes locked on the messy movements of the brush even though he must feel the intensity of the green of Harry’s eyes as it files away every twitch of his face expressions.

His thumb presses gently over the hot, flushed apple of Harry’s cheek when he’s done and put the lip gloss away, and Harry’s eyes might be more black pupil than colour because when he finally meets them his breath catches in his throat.

“Louis,” Harry breathes. “What does the flower mean?”

“I’m–” he pauses, and when he starts again he withdraws himself from the sentence. Harry hates how small he sounds, how scared. “Longing,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “It means longing for someone.”

“Look at me,” Harry orders, his chest tightening at how glazed over Louis’ eyes are when they flutter open. “What’s wrong, honey?”

Louis leans into his warmth when Harry’s hands cup his cheeks, his hand slipping from Harry’s face to comb through his hair and the other settling shakily over his heartbeat.

“I can’t,” he chokes out finally, nudging Harry’s right hand when he shakes his head, and Harry’s heart is beating so loudly under the gentle press of Louis’ palm. “I can’t do this with you as _friends–_ ”

“You’re not,” Harry says immediately, cutting him off, understanding washing over him in waves. “Not as friends,” he promises, his fingers threading in Louis’ hair.

Harry’s eyes stay gentle as Louis searches them, and he seems to find what he’s looking for because he huffs softly, lips breaking into a small smile when Harry wipes the dampness from the corner of his left eye.

“Zayn was right when he said you’re so fucking stupid,” he mumbles, and before Harry can pout and comment on it Louis is pressing him to the ground gently with the hand still secured on his chest and kissing him.

Louis kisses softly, too softly, his thin lips fitting gently against Harry’s. His black painted fingernails scratch gingerly at Harry’s scalp, Harry looping his hands around his neck.

“You’re stupid,” he whispers when Harry pushes his lips apart, laughing breathily when Harry tugs at his hair in a whine, and then he’s kissing him again, and again, and again.

He lets Harry lick into his mouth and take all the sloppy kisses he wants, the gloss smearing all over his jaw grounding, somehow. Red lipstick prints run along his chin with Harry’s kisses, and he giggles against Harry’s mouth when he guides his face to kiss him more, smiling against his lips.

His face sticks to Harry’s neck with the lipstick when he nuzzles against Harry’s collarbone, and it should maybe be gross but it isn’t, just makes him press repeated little murmurs of _you’re so lovely_ over where Harry’s heart beats.

They take turns washing up back inside, and when they’re bundled up in fresh clothes and smelling less like mud and more like vanilla scented shampoo they snuggle up in Louis’ bed.

“Why’s this under your pillow?” Harry asks, amused, pulling the slightly tattered red ribbon that belonged to him what feels like ages ago out before turning back around so he’s facing Louis.

Louis snatches it quickly from his hand, his cheeks heating up. “Shut up,” he says, huffing when Harry nudges his side. “This cute boy I wanted to ask out kept giving me mixed signals,” he drawls out, smiling when Harry grins sheepishly, “and his best friend told me that he’s just a dumbass and I should just tell him, but – well, instead I took him on a million dates and at some point stole his hair tie and he can only have it back if he stops being stupid and agrees to officially date me.”

“He does sound stupid,” Harry agrees, fresh honey warming his chest and fingertips tingling.

Louis swats at him. “Only I get to make fun of my boy, watch your mouth.”

Melting further against Louis’ side, Harry says, “He’d love to. Be your boy, I mean,” he adds when Louis hums, half questioning and half hopeful. “Be your boy,” he says again, because he likes the sound of it, “officially date you, all boyfriend like. He’d love to.”

“Yeah?” Louis breathes, extracting himself from Harry’s side to hover over him the tiniest bit, his hands resting on either of Harry’s sides on the comforter.

“Yeah,” Harry repeats, pulling him down gently by the back of his head so their noses keep bumping bashfully. “Sorry for being stupid.”

Against his lips, Louis corrects, “You’re lovely,” and Harry melts against the headboard when he kisses him.

(When Louis tells him he loves him, it’s by pressing a crown of red chrysanthemums threaded gently with small, white honeysuckles on top of Harry’s head, his eyes nervous and cheeks tinted the red of strawberries. Harry kisses the words back against his lips until they’re glossy and bruised red and his eyes are the blue of heliotropes and glazed over.)

**Author's Note:**

> sorry this turned out a tad shorter than i meant for it to be but i really really really hope you liked it anyway :D kudos and comment if u want ik im terrible at replying but i do read them all and i promise i’ll try this time
> 
> i’m on [tumblr](https://loveroflou.tumblr.com/)


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